


Hector's Arms

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Activism, Coming Out, Coming of Age, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should be such an easy thing to do. Step out of the cupboard under the stairs. Be the best. Be the bravest. Be a hero. Just…Come out - Harry Potter has a secret, and the more he tries to tell his friends, the harder it gets. An unexpected meeting with an old acquaintance in a Muggle bar makes him realise he’s not alone and the unexpected friendships formed in the Muggle world help Harry find his courage, a renewed sense of purpose and a love that’s worth fighting for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hector's Arms

_I look into the window of my mind, reflections of the fears I know I've left behind. I step out of the ordinary, I can feel my soul ascending…what have you done today to make you feel proud? You could be so many people, if you make that break for freedom. What have you done today to make you feel proud?_

_(Heather Small – Proud)_

 

Grimmauld Place is dark at the best of times, but in the first rain of autumn it’s grey and dank and the shadows stretch across the walls and over the floors. It’s one of those days where the house is too vast and too empty. There’s a palpable loneliness, and half-open doors to rooms which are full of memories.

_Sirius_.

Sometimes, I almost believe in ghosts. Not ones like Moaning Myrtle or Peeves. A different sort. The ones that you read about in Muggle stories. The ones that chill the air and make things move when you’re not looking, but never let themselves be seen.

If they do exist, they live in Grimmauld Place and Sirius is one of them. He’s everywhere on the dark autumn days when the sun never breaks through the clouds. I catch the scent of him on the cool October breeze as it moves through the corridors, sending papers and photographs into the air and onto the floor.

It’s so distinctive, I can close my eyes and imagine he's right there next to me. Rich. Expensive. _Strong_. The air’s full of him. Sirius. Padfoot. The first bloke I…

Fuck, I miss him. He’d sit on the bed if he was here right now, drinking whiskey. He’d smile at me and my heart would soar.

“You’re back,” I’d say. We’d laugh and hug and maybe – just maybe – I’d tell him.

Sometimes I curl up where he used to sleep. I clean the sheets with magic and try to remember how his laugh could fill an entire house – even one as big and empty as Grimmauld Place. I count the marks on the ceiling and remember the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled.

Sirius was the first to make me wonder. Sirius made me wrong-footed, unsettled and so happy I'd burst full of it, laughing at his jokes like a kid meeting some sort of rock star for the first time. There were moments when I couldn't work out the topsy-turvy feelings, the churning stomach, the nervous excitement and the way my palms went clammy when he sat next to me. 

_It's because he's family,_ I told myself, at first. It was an easy mistake to make, in those days. I was distracted with a war, after all. It hit me when he laughed at something I told him one evening, his face shadows and candle flames. I wanted to kiss him, and I wondered for a moment if maybe he wanted to kiss me back.

I think he’d have understood. Sometimes I was so sure, I’d teeter on the brink of saying it – the words about to burst out of me like flames. Then he’d give me one of those lazy, loaded smiles; an _I'll make dinner_ and the moment would pass. 

When I've spent too long alone, I talk to the shadows and the chill in the air and hope that he can hear me. I don’t need much. Just a sign of some sort – an indication that everything’s going to be okay.

Would my mum mind, do you think? Would dad still love me, if he knew?

If Sirius hears, he never replies.

Instead there’s only wind, rain and silence.

*

Sirius was the first, but he wasn’t the only. There were other boys before, after and in between the few awkward kisses with girls that never felt quite right. Cedric, for one. I used to get hot and funny around him, stumbling over my words and speaking too quickly. Cedric was so bloody handsome.

Everybody thought Cedric was brilliant. He was the perfect Hogwarts champion. He was funny, kind, smart and so warm it put everyone around him at ease. When I think of him now, I try to remember the warmth instead of how cold his hand was the first and last time I held it. Cold like porcelain; eyes wide and glassy. I see him sometimes, when I close my eyes. Icy fingers clutch onto mine, and the cotton of his Triwizard jumper is damp with salty tears. I hear his dad shouting his name – his voice breaks and I want Cedric to start coughing like they do in Muggle films when everyone breathes a sigh of relief, laughing and hugging each other and saying things like _thank god_ and _I don’t know what I’d do without you_. But Cedric doesn’t blink – he just stares at the sky, watching the stars. I wake up after those dreams with a sore throat, as if I’ve been crying through the night.

There was Malfoy, too. Can you believe it? I’ve never told anyone that. He’s an annoying prat, but sometimes I wonder if he's just like me. He had a way of looking at me sometimes, as if he was hungry – as if something hurt. He's too good looking for his own good, and he knows it. I had a dream about him in my final year. He was on the floor of the bathroom, bleeding and crying and…and I was kissing him. Everything stopped hurting, and we kissed until our clothes were soaking and my knees hurt from grappling with Malfoy on cool, marble floor. 

Bugger. I shouldn’t think about that. Ron’d have a fit.

I should about something safer.

Something less…queer.

*

In the end reciting potions ingredients do the trick. There’s nothing remotely sexy about potions.

I focus on Wolfsbane, and remember stirring clockwise (one, two) and anti-clockwise (five of those) until I can see the spirals of blue smoke traveling in delicate coils upwards until they disappear to nothing.

Wolfsbane always reminds me of Remus. He’s easier to remember than Sirius. I think it's because he’s still there when Teddy laughs, eyes flashing hazel and gold - like part of Remus wanted to stay behind. I didn't fancy Remus, as much as I liked him. He didn't make my cheeks heat or my heart pound. He didn’t give me dark stares or lazy winks which made me want to do anything – everything. He was just good, and kind and he never should have died. He always seemed like a man who had once lost something important. I wish I’d asked him what it was – he's one of those people I'd like to have known when I had a chance.

I almost told him once, too, after Sirius died. I said something about wanting to be normal. Ordinary. The sort of person who could have a family, and keep them living for a decent length of time.

“You’ll never be ordinary,” Remus said. He ruffled my hair and made me feel eleven years old again. His lips curved into one of those strange, sad smiles and his words kept me fighting long after the war. “You’ll always be _extraordinary_.”

I swallow back the memory of Remus as a lump rises in my throat, and decide I’ll clean his room tomorrow.

I close the door on my memories of the dead and go for a run in the rain, until I’m soaked through to the skin and I’m not sure if the water on my cheeks is rain or tears.

*

I clean myself up after getting mud and rainwater all over myself, and head for a pint in the Leaky. It's Friday night, which means the bar is crammed full of people looking to enjoy a beer or three to see in the start of the weekend. It's the end of my first week away from the Ministry and I'm not sure how to celebrate the end of the working week, now I'm not working anymore.

“Aren't you bored senseless?” Ron reaches onto my plate and helps himself to a chip. “You’ll be back at the Ministry in a month - take it from me.”

“Maybe.” I take a bite of my burger, nervous excitement making the burger dry and unappealing. I put it back on the plate and turn the remaining chips in Ron’s direction. “Have the rest, if you like.”

“Thanks. I’m famished.” Ron plucks a couple more chips from the plate and points his fork at me. “You haven’t even decided what to do yet.”

“I’ve got some ideas.” I don’t, really but Ron doesn’t need to know that. Besides, Ron’s never been one for making plans. That’s Hermione’s influence. “I’m going to do Grimmauld Place up for a start. Maybe travel a bit and see something of the world – like Muggles do.”

“I think I’d like a gap year.” Hermione’s eyes take on a dreamy look as she munches on one of my chips. “All of that time with all of those _books_.”

“I’d go to America.” Ron looks excited, his face breaking into a wide smile. “Do you know their Ministry is hidden in one of those massive Muggle theme parks? Muggles are brilliant, aren’t they? I’d never get any work done.”

“Do you get any work done in London?” Hermione raises an eyebrow at Ron, earning herself an elbow in the side.

“Bugger off. I’m not the one taking a year off to play Quidditch and do a bit of painting.”

I glare at Ron, because that’s a bit unfair. “It’s just a year. I’ll be back pushing paper at the Ministry soon enough. Besides, I reckon I’ve earned it.”

“I’m not going to argue with that.” Hermione smiles and squeezes my hand. Hermione’s always good at smoothing things over. “I think a bit of time out will do you the world of good.”

“Maybe you’ll get a girlfriend?” Ron looks excited by the prospect, and he leans forward his voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard Parkinson was telling everyone she thinks you’re the perfect match. Can you believe it?”

“Harry’s not going to start going out with _Pansy_.” Hermione looks horrified. “Please tell me you’re not, Harry.”

I can feel heat warming my cheeks and search for a way to change the subject. “I doubt it. She’s not really my type. Did you hear Zabini’s getting married? Who gets married at our age?”

“Nope. What _is_ you type, anyway?” Ron settles back and pats his stomach with a groan. “Blimey, I’ve eaten enough to feed a herd of Hippogriffs.” He exchanges a quick look with Hermione – one of those ones, that makes me feel like there’s something I’m missing. “Ginny’s going to be back from Wales in a couple of months. Maybe you’ll be able to get things back on track?”

“We really won’t.” I try not to wince at the thought of my last conversation with Ginny, and pull my plate close again to retrieve my remaining chips. “We’re just mates. It’s what we both agreed.”

“But neither of you ever said _why_.” Ron studies me closely and then shrugs. “None of my business, I suppose.”

I can sense the shift in Ron’s tone and the note of hurt at not being trusted with my secrets. I hate this, and part of me wishes I could just say it. I _do_ trust Ron and Hermione, after all. I trust them with my life. They wouldn’t care. Would they? But I can’t be sure of that because we don’t know anyone else like me. All I knows is Ron calls Draco Malfoy a _bloody ponce_ and Hermione keeps trying to set me up with one clever witch after another, as if that’s what I fought for all of this time. 

My friends come in pairs, these days. Neville and Hannah, Luna and Rolf, Ron and Hermione. It’s always witch and wizard, wizard and witch and then it’s me. Just Harry.

I run my hand through my hair and try to ignore the way Ron and Hermione keep looking at me. A rush of anger and shame makes me clench his jaw and press my lips into a tight line so the words don’t burst out of me. The thought of saying it sends heat flooding through my body in waves which make my heart quicken and my mouth dry. I picture myself trying to explain something I don’t understand with faltering, stumbling words. I picture the look of shock and surprise and brace myself for the endless questions

_Are you sure?_

_How do you know, if you’ve never…?_

It should be such an easy thing to do. Step out of the cupboard under the stairs. Be the best. Be the bravest. Be a hero. Just…

_Come out_.

Fear slices through my chest, razor sharp and unexpected. I’ve never been afraid of anything like I’m afraid of this. I’d prefer to fly a dragon or walk into the Forbidden Forest again than tell my friends why I can’t love Ginny in the way she deserves. I’m not ready for the _how are you going to have children, anyway?_ or the intrusive questions about stuff I don’t know the answer to.

“I’m…going to get another drink.” I push back my chair and muster a smile. “Another round?”

“Why not?” Ron shrugs.

“Just a small glass this time.” Hermione smiles, contemplating me. “Harry, are you-?”

“I’m fine.”

I make my way to the bar, losing myself in the throngs of people drinking their way into Saturday morning.

By the time the barman asks me for my order, I can breathe again.

*

I take a leaflet out of Molly Weasley's book and decide to clean through my hangover.

I haven’t been in Remus' room for months and it looks as if someone still lives there. There’s a musty tweed jacket casually draped on the bed as if it expects its owner to come back and collect it. There are simple boots, well-worn with complicated laces holding the leather together. I flick my wand to open the windows and the cool air carries with it the scent of grass and rain, breathing life into the room for the first time since the war.

I slide the jacket on, laughing at the sleeves dropping over my hands. Tweed doesn’t suit me much, but it’s warm and comfortable. I decide to keep it for another winter when I’m a bit older and less inclined to wear ripped jeans and scruffy trainers with holes in the canvas. Besides, I might need some decent clothes if Shacklebolt refuses to take me back after my year gallivanting. Something sensible and interview worthy. Something like tweed.

The wardrobe's full of cobwebs and I have to use magic to clean it from top to bottom, until the wood is free from dust and highly polished again. It’s not just memories of Remus in the wardrobe. There’s Regulus Black in the fine velvet dress and expensive Slytherin robes, preserved in plastic which zips up like a body bag. There’s a set of posh dress robes which look about a hundred years old and a black knitted jumper with dark leather patches on the elbows. I pull out the jumper and hold it up to the light. It’s not something I remember Remus wearing, but it’s definitely not Black clothing. It looks as though it’s been knitted by hand with fastidious attention to detail. It looks like something Molly would make, but with less lumps and garish splashes of colour. It's only a little bit misshapen at one of the cuffs, which has started to unravel as if someone was in the habit of pulling the sleeves over their hands and nibbling on the edge of them. 

I bring the wool to my face and breathe in the scent. It’s both familiar and not. Something that reminds me of a long time ago – something I can’t quite place. I tug the jumper over my t-shirt and push up the sleeves. It’s warm and the soft knit is surprisingly comforting. 

When the sun finally breaks through the clouds it’s the perfect kind of day, with blue skies and cool, icy air. 

I decide to take a walk, even though I don’t have anywhere to go.

*

I find myself in an old Muggle pub in Soho after walking for over an hour. I’ve thought about going in before, during the summer when people stand outside drinking beer and the rainbow flags look even brighter than usual. I’d wait on the periphery and drink in the sight of people laughing and chatting in tight-knit groups, before moving on.

It’s quieter today. The weekend’s a distant memory and there’s just a couple of people standing outside and smoking, watching me with knowing smiles as if they can tell I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. 

I try to ignore the stares and run my fingers over the sleeve of the wool jumper. It’s soothing, somehow. Like Remus is right there with me, just as he was in the Forbidden Forest. I wonder if they’d come and help me now, giving me that last gentle push towards the unknown.

I order a pint of ale and perch awkwardly at the bar, listening to the barman talk to a regular.

“You’ll come this weekend?” The barman sniggers and clears his throat when he’s rewarded with a snort of derision. “It’s important, you know that as well as anyone. We’ve fought for long enough for this – all of us.” The barman’s voice takes on an accusing note. “ _Some_ of us.”

“It may have escaped your notice but I have been rather busy doing some fighting of my own. Fighting which doesn’t involve draping myself in rainbows and cavorting half-naked dressed in leather trousers.”

The voice is familiar and unexpected. Clipped words laced with a note of scorn travel through the small bar and I nurse my beer, keeping my head down. My heart races because I don’t know what he’s doing _here_ of all places. I wonder if he knows much about Muggle bars, and if he’s here just to complain about warm lager or for…something else.

“You were fighting for freedom, weren’t you? It’s the same thing, in the end.”

“The freedom to _live in peace_. You won that battle long ago.”

“Did we?” The barman sounds angry now, and he lets out a huff of aggravation. “It’s not so long ago they bought nail bombs to these parts. Besides, I might not be part of your world these days but I know there’s work to be done. You’re at least fifteen years behind the Muggles. You could make a difference.”

“I’m quite sure the word of a former Death Eater would have supporters springing into action.” The familiar voice is low and scathing. “I simply wish to be left alone.”

“Here, what do you think about fighting for the cause, kid?”

My hands freeze on my pint, and I count to ten hoping desperately the barman is talking to someone else – anyone else.

“Cat got your tongue, has it? I haven’t seen you here before.” The barman sounds amused, and I look up. The barman’s smiling and too late to escape, my eyes land on Snape. His eyes narrow and he folds his arms across his chest, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before they smooth again.

“I don’t come here much.” My cheeks heat and I try to avoid looking at Snape who continues to stare.

“Hang about…you’re Harry bloody Potter.” 

I groan, and drop my head into my hands. Even here, in a Muggle pub, I’m Harry bloody Potter. Snape snorts and speaks with the same scornful note. “Now _there_ is a celebrity I fully expect to run a campaign to bring rainbow flags to Hogsmeade.”

“And about bloody time, too.” The barman extends his hand. “I’m Steve. I’m a Squib, and I don’t have much to do with wizards these days. Not since Severus and I-”

“That’s quite enough,” Snape snaps. “I doubt Potter wants to hear the history of our acquaintance.”

I do, but I refrain from giving Snape the satisfaction of telling him so. Instead, I focus on Steve who’s distinctly less frosty. “There’s a party, you said?”

“This weekend.” Steve grins. “We’re celebrating. On account of marriage equality.” Steve pours me another pint and pushes it along the bar. “On the house. Laws of the land used to say marriage was between a man and a woman. Not anymore though.” He puffs his chest out, proudly. “Years of campaigning that’s been. Of course we’re having a party. You should come along if you fancy it.”

“Yeah, I think I will.” A wave of excitement makes me smile, and I cast another look at Snape who seems irritated. “Can’t we get married?” 

Snape raises an eyebrow, his mouth twitching at the corner. “I’m hardly dressed for the occasion. I wasn’t expecting to be propositioned so early in the afternoon. On a Tuesday, no less.”

The rush of heat to my cheeks causes a crow of delight from Steve. “Leave the boy alone, Severus. Can’t you see he’s new to this?” His brow furrows and his expression sobers. “There hasn’t been much in the way of campaigns for this sort of thing in the wizarding world. People tend to keep quiet about it, for the most part. How many gay wizards to _you_ know, Harry?”

“Not a lot.” I pull a face, the earlier excitement replaced with a dull sense of resignation. “It’s frowned upon, then?” 

“It’s not all that bad.” Steve looks apologetic. “It’s not illegal or anything, and it’s not something people speak out against either. It’s just not something people talk much about at all. I suppose people have been fighting other causes these last few years. Why don’t you tell Harry about your chap, Severus? He didn’t want to come out either, did he? Even married a witch in the end.”

Snape growls and holds his hand up. “I don’t wish to share the intimate details of my life with Potter.”

“Fine then.” Steve shrugs. “I’ll leave you to it.”

I slip out of my stool and walk towards Snape with more than a little trepidation.

“What the blazes are you wearing?” Snape grips the scruff of my jumper and gives me a shake to emphasise the point.

I push him away, with a growl of annoyance. “What does it look like I’m wearing? I didn’t know you were so interested in fashion.” Or men, I want to add, but don’t. 

“I’m interested when the hero of the wizarding world decides to walk into a gay bar in Soho wearing _my_ jumper.” Snape stares down his nose at me, folding his arms. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“Your jumper?” The cosy warmth of the tightly knit wool and the feeling of being connected with Remus slides away. I yank at the base of it, trying to tug it over my head despite the fact it’s too cold for a t-shirt. “I didn’t know it was _yours_ for fucks sake. Have it back if it means that much to you.”

“Ignorant little twit.” Snape stills my hand and gives me a look. “If I did wish to retrieve my clothing from your person, I wouldn’t do so now in the middle of a public bar.”

“No?” The idea of Snape taking any clothing from _my person_ makes me uncomfortably warm. “I thought it belonged to Remus.” I tug the neck of the jumper which is close and itchy now. “I was tidying his room. Why the fuck was your jumper at Grimmauld Place, anyway?”

Snape’s looks far away and doesn’t respond. Eventually he drums his fingers on the bar and breaks the silence with a huff. “If you must, I suppose you can buy me a drink.”

I’m surprised to find the offer sends a rush of pleasure through my body. “You’re not going to make me give you my clothes again are you?”

Snape smirks. “That rather depends on how many drinks you’re buying, Potter.”

“Bugger off.”

I wave Snape off to some nearby seats and turn my back on him to hide the heat in my cheeks.

*

“Are you here out of idle curiosity?” Snape swirls the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking against the sides.

“Not exactly.” I take a sip of my beer and my heart pounds in my chest. “I’m here because…”

Snape waves his hand impatiently. “Spit it out.”

I cross my arms and give Snape a look. “I’m here because I’m _gay_.” 

The easiest thing to do.

_Be the best. Be the bravest. Be a hero._

Just come out.

It’s such a relief to say it out loud, the tension floods out of my body and I laugh. I laugh as if I’m never going to stop, my eyes pricking with tears and my body hot and warm. It feels good, to own it at last. It feels right. It feels _perfect._ Snape must think I’m barmy but I couldn’t care less. I want to punch my fist in the air, and take this moment to savour the victory of saying the words out loud.

I finally notice Snape watching me with a peculiar expression on his face, his lips pursed in a tight line. “Would you care to explain the joke?”

I compose myself, barely. “I’ve never said that before. Not to anyone. You’re the only one I’ve told.”

“I see.” An expression of surprise crosses Snape’s face momentarily. “And is there any reason you felt compelled to come out to me, of all people?”

I shrug and sip my pint, watching Snape. “Because you were being a prat. Besides, you’re here too. I don’t know anyone else I can talk to about it. You had a _chap_.”

“I’m not some kind of counselling service for queer Hogwarts alumni, Potter.” Snape folds his hands together on the table and glares. “If you want to know what goes where, I suggest you buy yourself a magazine.”

“I don’t want to know that.” I laugh, another giddy burst of happiness. “Besides, I’ve read plenty of magazines. I reckon I’ll do okay.” I place my ankle on my knee and lean back on my chair, giving Snape a grin. “I know how to handle a broomstick.”

Snape rolls his eyes. “I imagine you’ll have your pick of twenty-somethings to test that theory on soon enough. Typical Gryffindor.”

“I don’t know about that. I think I’d prefer to get to know someone first.”

“Is that so?” Snape’s eyes travel the length of my body, and the intensity of his stare makes me shiver. “How…curious.”

“That bloke of yours…what happened to him?”

“It might surprise you to learn there has been more than one.” Snape meets my gaze again and sips his drink slowly. “I take it you mean the person Steve was alluding to?”

“For now.” I don’t want to admit that it does surprise me that there’s been more than one. It surprises me there’s been any, because I never thought of Snape having sex with anyone – let alone other wizards.

“We were together a long time ago. Long before he married.” 

“He married a witch?” 

“Indeed.” Snape’s lips tighten into a line and he looks lost in his memories.

“Why would he do that?” 

“He was rather used to being stigmatised. I don’t think he wished to attract further attention to himself. Besides, our relationship was not exactly an easy one. I believe he was happy with his choices in the end.”

“Were you?”

“I am rarely _happy_ , Potter.” Snape’s lips twitch again and I have the distinct impression I’m being teased. “You know me better than that, surely?”

“Do I?”

I watch Snape sip his drink and wonder if I’ve ever really known him at all.

*

When I finally get to the pub that weekend I’m half an hour late and have to Apparate to a nearby street to avoid being seen by Muggles.

The pub is packed, with people spilling onto the streets and clinking their glass together with loud cheers. The music pounds from nearby bars and the lines between pubs become blurred as everyone mingles in one big group, cat-calling and hollering and singing along to some Muggle pop I’ve never heard of before. A girl with closely cropped fuscia pink hair waves a rainbow flag winks at me and blows me a kiss.

“It’s like Pride all over again. Flags at the bar, honey.”

“Great. Thanks.” I push my way inside and find a spot at the bar which is a bit less crowded than the rest, looking around for Steve who’s nowhere to be seen. “I’ll just have a coke.”

“Will you indeed?” The barman looks me up and down, biting his thumbnail and frowning. “Got any ID?”

“ID?” My cheeks heat and I fumble in my wallet, knowing my Ministry pass won’t exactly cut the mustard. There’s nothing that says fake ID like a card proclaiming you’re a wizard.”

“Despite the fact he bears all the hallmarks of an irritating teenager, I can assure you Potter long since passed the age of eighteen.” Snape settles on a stool next to me, and smirks, clearly enjoying my predicament.

“Fine. Just bring a driver’s license next time.” The barman winks and pours me a coke, giving Severus a whiskey.

“You really are a regular.” I nod at the whiskey and tip my glass to Snape. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you tonight.”

“I shouldn’t have bothered coming.” Snape looks morose and he winces when a man jostles him. “Kindly bugger off.”

“Don’t be like that.” The man rattles a small plastic collection pot. “We’re raising money for LGBT Equality. Care to contribute?”

“Not in the least.” Snape pointedly turns his back and I rummage in my wallet again as the man turns his back.

“Wait! I will.” I push a tenner into the pot and get a beaming smile.

“Thanks, really. That’s generous of you.” The man gives me a badge with the colours of the rainbow on it, and I pin it proudly to my jumper. When I sit again, Snape glares at the badge as if it offends him.

“If you decide to bring rainbows to the wizarding world I want no part of it.”

The thought makes me feel energised in a way I haven’t for months and I flash Snape a smile. “You think I should?”

Snape turns his eyes to the ceiling. “I think whatever my views on the matter, you will be quite unable to resist.”

“I haven’t even come out yet. Not to anyone apart from you.” I toy with the badge on my jumper.

“No.” When I look up, Snape’s watching me closely. “But you will.”

*

I add rum to the coke about three drinks in, and the music beats louder. I find myself on a dancefloor surrounded by men of all shapes and sizes, dancing until I’m a hot, sweaty mess and I begin to understand why so many people take their clothes off.

“I’ll have another rum and coke, please.” Eventually I collapse onto a chair and push some coins along the bar. “Water too, I think.”

“You seem to be in your element.” Snape sounds cross and I nudge him with my shoulder.

“It’s fun. You should dance, too.”

“Out of the question.”

“It’d be good if the wizarding world had somewhere like this, wouldn’t it?”

“Somewhere bright young things could grind against you on a regular basis?” Snape snorts softly and studies his drink. “Yes, I imagine you’d like that.”

“That’s not it.” I press my fingers to my rainbow coloured badge, because it really _isn’t_. “It’s not that at all. To tell the truth I’m not really looking for a quick snog against the wall.”

“What a pity.” Snape’s voice carries a note of dry humour and I smile.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Absolutely not.” Snape turns to me, horrified. “Remember who you’re speaking to.”

“Sorry.” I wink, because I’m not. Part of me thinks Snape _is_ flirting with me and even more unexpectedly, I think I like it.

“Cheeky brat.” Snape snorts and drains his drink. He slides from his seat and leans close enough to speak in my ear. “That’s quite enough Muggle music for one evening. Goodnight, Potter.”

Snape’s body close to mine makes my heartbeat quicken and my skin tingles with heat. A flood of arousal crashes over me and all I can feel is Snape’s slim fingers burning against my skin, and his hard body pressed next to mine. Someone jostles me from behind and I’m in Snape’s arms before I can say _Expelliarmus_. His arms wrap around me, holding me steady and it takes me a moment to realise when his lips press against my hair that he’s laughing. The sound is low, rich and bloody _brilliant._

“You’re drunk, Potter. It seems almost sinful to leave you here at the mercy of horny Muggles.”

“Better make sure I get home safely, then.” I pull back and look up at Snape who studies me closely, his lips pressed together. I hold my breath until I’m bursting and finally he nods.

“Yes, I suppose I better had.”

*

“What do you actually do now you’re not at Hogwarts?” It’s easier to walk home, through the throngs of people in Leicester Square and past the neon lights of the West End theatres and casinos. I keep close to Snape but not too close – just near enough to feel the light warmth of his body against my skin and to catch the musky scent of his cologne.

“I’m writing a book.”

“Fiction?” I stop in my tracks, and Snape arches an eyebrow at me.

“Hardly. I’m writing a book about Wolfsbane and the harmful side effects of prolonged usage. After leaving Hogwarts I require something to do that generates enough cash to enjoy a whiskey or two in Soho.”

“I’m not working at the moment.” My head feels a little fuzzy and I sway into Snape.

“I heard as much. What exactly do you intend to do with yourself?”

“I’m hoping it’s going to come to me.” I snap my fingers together, and Snape steadies me with a hand on my back. “Just like that.”

And just like that, it does. It hits me with a gust of icy wind and a whoop and a holler from a drunk Muggle stumbling in the opposite direction. “That bloke of yours – the one who married a witch – it was Remus, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Snape’s voice is low and steady. “Is that a problem for you?”

“No,” I lie, and wrap my arms around myself suddenly cold. “Let’s just get back.”

*

“I don’t have any booze.”

“I’ve had plenty of alcohol for one evening.” Snape pushes the door closed behind us and catches my hand, making me turn around. “Stop, Harry.”

“Stop what? I’m just going to put the kettle on and make us some tea. Would you like that? I should get that jumper for you too, in case you want to wear it again. Maybe I’ve still got some biscuits if you’d like to eat something. Cheese and crackers, too. With grapes.”

“For the love of Merlin.” Snape rolls his eyes and his dark eyes bore into mine. “Do you ever stop talking?”

I shrug, because I know I’m talking to fill the gaps instead saying any of the things I want to say. “Do you think the others knew?” 

“I see.” Understanding flickers across Snape’s face and I tug away from him.

“What do you _see_?”

“You want to know if your parents and godfather would have approved.” Snape brushes his fingers over the badge, pinned to my jumper. “Rainbows and an irritating desire to change the world aren’t enough for you, after all.”

“You must have some idea what they thought?”

“No.” Snape shakes his head and takes the offered cup of tea. “Your parents never knew about Remus, as far as I’m aware.”

“And Sirius?”

“Your godfather would never have accepted me, whatever my gender.” Snape blows on the warm cup of tea and arches an eyebrow at me. “I assume you know that?”

“He might have done. If Remus had told him he had to. He listened to Remus, he really did.”

“Not then.” Snape shakes his head, and I wonder if knows how fucking important this is. I can feel my heart pounding erratically because I just want to be sure – I want to know I haven’t been telling the wrong person, all of this time. “Remus was being rather secretive, and Black didn’t entirely trust him. You have to remember countless people were under the influence of the Imperius Curse at the time.”

“It might have been easier if people didn’t care so much about what everyone else thought. You could have been together.”

“Perhaps.” Snape puts down his tea and stands. “It was a long time ago, and something I trust you will keep to yourself.”

My mind whirs and I nod, barely registering when Snape says goodbye.

I want to scream and shout. I want to shake the ghost of Sirius out of the shadows and speak to him face to face. I want to have tea and biscuits with my mum and hug her and make sure she understands. I want to show my dad the badge and tell him how bloody unfair it is that wizards and witches can’t marry one another, and feel him ruffle my hair and tell me to fight for what I believe in – no matter the cause.

“I’m gay. I’m a bloody queer. What do you think about _that_?” I throw my mug across the room and watch it shatter into pieces. I don’t realise my breath is coming in shallow gulps and tears sting my eyes and slide down my cheeks. 

I’m so busy shouting I hardly realise the Floo hasn’t let out its familiar _whoosh_. I’m clutching my rainbow badge so tightly the pin breaks my skin, making me wince. I’m shouting about Snape, about Remus and asking for some sort of sign – for any sort of sign. I yell for mum and dad to come and tell me it’s okay, because don’t they understand I want them now more than ever? I shout about hating my cold, empty home and always having to be _brave_.

I’m still shouting when strong arms lift me from the floor and wrap around me. I’m sniffling and my nose is running; I’m pissed and knackered and look like shit. I’m behaving like a teenager, screaming at the four walls of Grimmauld Place as if anyone I love still lives here. It must look stupid and childish, the way I’m begging for approval I’m never going to get. 

I wonder if the ghosts know how cold and lonely it can be to live, when you don’t even know who you are anymore.

The arms tighten and I clutch onto Snape, murmuring _sorry, sorry, sorry_ as he slides his hand through my hair and holds me close, without saying a word.

*

“I behaved like a right prat.” I make it to bed for long enough to sleep it off. When I wake, Snape’s there on the duvet cover still fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. It’s dark outside and the rain has started up again.

“Indeed.” Snape doesn’t correct me, but he doesn’t sound cross. I notice he’s taken his shoes off, and his toes are pale, thin and bony. I wonder if the rest of Snape’s like that – sharp edges and knobbly bones. “You always did have the potential to be insufferably dramatic.”

“Thanks.” Snape’s words make me feel strangely warm, the hot shame dissipating. “Did you ever tell your parents?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it was a long time before I saw my father again. I don’t believe he ever got over it.” Snape sounds almost pleased, his voice hardening and taking on a malicious edge.

“I’m sorry.” I reach for Snape’s hand and hold my breath, twining our fingers together. He lets me and when he squeezes my hand, I exhale and remember how to breathe.

“It’s hardly your fault.” I watch Snape counting the same marks on the ceiling as I do, sometimes.

“That’s a Grim.” I shift closer to Snape, and point at one of the larger marks. “See? That’s the mouth and teeth and the body is just-”

“Hmm.” Snape cuts me off effectively by stroking his thumb over my hand and even that innocuous touch sends sparks of pleasure through my body. When he speaks again his voice is gruff. “And that one?”

“That’s not much of anything, really.” I let out a nervous laugh. “It’s just a mark on the ceiling.”

“Is there any particular reason you insist on seeing large black dogs in ever cobweb and shadow?” Snape shifts onto his side, and his fingers toy with my hair.

“You know why.” I stare at Snape and he nods, his breath leaving him in a sigh.

“Yes.”

“He wouldn’t like this much, would he?”

Snape snorts and shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

“He was the first bloke I ever liked.” I pull a face and give Snape an apologetic look. “I mean, as much as you can when they don’t feel the same way.”

“I see.” Snape’s lip curls and his eyes flash. “Despite your lack of experience, you already have appalling taste in men.”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” I smile, Snape laughs and everything feels warm.

“Precisely.”

*

It’s quiet for a while and I feel calmer than before. The sheets rustle and the bed dips when Snape moves into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, putting on his shoes.

“Will you stay?”

Snape turns, fixing me with the same dark stare and I think I can see the barest glimmer of a smile.

“Not tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because if I stay…” Snape stops himself and stands, giving me a curt nod. “Goodnight, Potter.”

He disappears with a _crack_ before I can ask when I’ll see him again.

*

I tell Ron first, when he’s halfway through a ham and cheese toasted sandwich.

He sprays crumbs across the table and his eyes widen, a _Merlin’s balls_ making the people on the table next to us look at him with disapproval.

“Does it matter?” I hold my breath until Ron shakes his head and takes another bite of his sandwich.

“Anything’s better than Parkinson.” Ron chews thoughtfully. “Do you reckon my Great Aunt Mildred’s a lesbian?”

I stare at Ron. “The one who gave you her robes? How the fuck would I know?”

“Dunno.” Ron shrugs. “She had this friend, for ages. Mabelle.”

“And that makes her gay?” 

Ron pulls a face. “You’d know better than me. But really, there’s only so much time two people can spend playing wizarding chess. They’d always say that’s what they’d been doing when mum took us for a visit.” 

“Besides,” Ron polishes off his sandwich, and continues, “nobody looks _that_ happy after a game of chess.”

*

I see the picture in the _Prophet_ , grainy and unmoving.

_Hector’s Arms._

I stuff my toast in my mouth and gulp down my tea, Apparating to the listed address and knocking on the door until an elderly wizard peers through a gap in the door. 

“What the bloody hell do you want?”

I wave the paper and give him my best smile.

“I’m Harry Potter, sir. I’m here about the advert in the _Prophet_.”

“What’s Harry Potter want with the Hector’s Arms?” The man sounds even more suspicious, but he opens the door a little wider. I peer behind him and see the dingy corridors and my heart swells with happiness.

I take a breath and hold out my hand for shaking. “I’d like to enquire about buying the pub.”

*

“I haven’t seen you here for a while.”

“I’ve had publishing deadlines.” Snape gestures to my drink. “Another one of those for Potter.”

“He’s been looking for you every day for weeks.” Steve gives me a wink and I glare at him.

“Thanks for that.”

“Welcome.” Steve grins and puts down two drinks. “Be good, boys.”

I look at Snape, drinking in the sight of him. He’s lean and wiry, and Muggle clothes suit him well. Even when he’s glaring down his nose at me, he looks good. My senses have become acutely aware of Snape’s scent – I can almost taste him on my lips – rich with hot, peaty whiskey. I shift in my seat and bite back a groan at the thought of Snape’s hands on every inch of my body and try not to get ahead of myself.

“Publishing deadlines?” I raise a sceptical eyebrow in the way I’ve seen Snape do on occasion. “Yeah, right. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” 

“You tell me.” I shrug, and Snape still doesn’t look up. “You can just tell me if you don’t want to be bothered. I won’t care.” It’s a lie, but I say it with as much conviction as I can muster.

“I’m sure you won’t – not when you find something else to keep you occupied.”

“That’s what this is about?” A traitorous flicker of hope flames in my stomach. “You think I’m going to find someone else?”

“I think you are a young man exploring his sexuality for the first time.” Snape sips his drink and refuses to meet my eyes. “It’s only natural you’ll want to experience as much as you can, initially.”

“Is that what you did?” I nudge Snape and make him look at me. “Explore?”

“Somewhat.” Snape’s eyes trail over my body and my heartbeat quickens. “However, I wasn’t blessed with your physique or your looks. I have no doubt I was less…desirable to others.”

“Don’t be soft,” then, “You think I’m desirable?” The flame burns more fiercely and I slip out of my stool to edge closer. 

“I don’t believe I was quite that candid,” Snape replies, smoothly. “I find you irritating. Impulsive, idiotic-”

“Irresistible?” I offer, hopefully.

I’m met with a snort and Snape’s lips twitch at the corner. “I’ve managed thus far.”

“By writing your bloody book,” I point out. “That’s not _resisting_. That’s running away.” I brush my fingers on Snape’s arm. “Why did you leave?”

“I could hardly have taken advantage of you in your maudlin state.” Snape moves his arm away and stands, looking at me properly at last. “I prefer my partners enthusiastic.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Because you’re so cheerful all the time.” I pause, my breath hitching. “You wanted to take advantage?”

Snape’s eyebrow arches and his eyes flash, his fingers running over my chin. “Most decidedly.”

I try not to throw myself at Snape then and there because I have to tell him my news first. “I’m not unhappy now. I’m pretty upbeat, actually.”

“I can tell.” Snape glares, but the way his thumb brushes against my cheek belies his words. “It’s very annoying.”

“I’ve found something to do.” I pull the crumpled piece of paper I’ve been carrying around for weeks out of my pocket. “Guess who owns a pub? A wizarding pub.”

Snape frowns at the paper and groans, pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering something that sounds like _bloody Gryffindors_. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I’m getting a rainbow flag and everything.” I take back the paper and stuff it into my pocket. “I wanted to make sure people had somewhere to go. No one should have to love _quietly_.”

Snape’s lips purse. “Some of us value privacy, however. Did that thought ever cross your mind?”

“Privacy, yes.” I furrow my brow at Snape. “But there’s a difference between keeping certain things private and being afraid to be who you are, isn’t there? I want to make the pub somewhere people don’t feel scared to be themselves anymore.”

“Just because Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have taken your revelation in their stride doesn’t mean others will be so accommodating.”

“I know.” I shrug, because it’s not as if I haven’t thought about that. It’s _all_ I’ve thought about. “But that’s why it matters even more, isn’t it?”

The kiss takes me by surprise. I expect it to be gentle, somehow – like the stroke of Snape’s thumb over my hand or the slide of long fingers through my hair.

Instead, it’s anything but. It’s hard and demanding, the heat of Snape’s body pressing against my own. He coaxes my mouth open and nips at my bottom lip with sharp teeth. His hand twists in my hair and he tugs my head back with a groan, exposing my neck to fierce, biting kisses.

It’s sublime and I never want it to stop, kissing him back with reckless abandon. When we finally break apart it takes a while to catch my breath.

“What was that all about?”

Snape gives me one of his half smiles and brings our lips together again.

“That, Potter, was my attempt at resisting you.”

*

Being snogged against a wall to the side of a dance floor should feel more impersonal somehow.

But it’s Snape – or Severus, as he muttered somewhere between the first kiss and the fifteenth – so it doesn’t feel impersonal at all. I’m acutely aware that it’s Snape’s body pressed against my own, that it’s his lips hot, hard and searching. It’s one of those nights where the music has lots of bass and countless popular numbers send the crowd into a frenzy. The music _thump, thumps_ beneath my feet and the lights turn from yellow to blue and back again. 

“Didn’t think clubbing would be your scene.”

“I’m barely tolerating it,” Snape murmurs in my ear. He shows how _tolerant_ he is by shoving his hands under my shirt and kissing me again. “You shouldn’t expect this to be a regular occurrence.”

“I’m going to have my own pub to run, I won’t have time for clubbing.” I pull back and push Snape away momentarily because I can’t think when he’s kissing me until my lips hurt. “Wait, are you talking about the club or the snogging?”

Snape’s lips curve. “The former.”

“Thank Merlin for that.”

I yank Snape close and kiss him again.

*

I open Hector’s Arms on a Saturday, with a fanfare of rainbows and a queasy sensation in my stomach.

“Give them time, Potter.” Severus crosses his legs and settles back, patting the seat next to him. “Sit.”

“Why isn’t anyone here?” I twist my hands together and look at the bar staff talking in quiet whispers, probably about what a disaster this is going to be.

“ _Relax_.” Severus slides his hand onto my shoulder and massages slowly, releasing the tension from my muscles. “They’ll come.”

“So will I, if you keep that up.” I rub my nose into the crook of Severus’ neck and breathe in his familiar scent, in an effort to relax.

“If I had known a simple neck massage was all that was required I wouldn’t have gone to such…effort last night.” 

I can feel Severus smiling as his slender fingers slide through my hair, making me shiver. “Now you’re making it sound like you don’t enjoy it.”

Severus tips my head back and brings our lips together until I’m fuzzy headed, half hard and panicking less. “To the contrary.”

“Evening, Harry.” I look up to see Ron shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “Any decent booze in this place?” 

“Plenty.” I stand, taking care to keep the tips of my fingers connected with Severus. It’s that sort of night where I don’t want to leave him alone, and I’m not sure I could if I tried. “Beer?”

“I can get these.” Severus brushes his lips to my cheek and squeezes my hand, before extracting himself. “And a rum and coke for you, Potter. I fully expect to see you doing some atrocious dancing later this evening.”

“I’ll look a bit soft if other people don’t-”

“Here they are!” Ron waves at the door, breaking into a smile. “Charlie told me he’d bring some mates. Right up his street, this. Who’d have thought?”

“Not me…” 

Charlie Weasley high-fives twenty or so people I don’t recognise. The music flares and one of the group lets out a whoop.

“I believe you have other supporters, too.” Severus is back at my side, pointing at the door. 

“Had to check out the opposition, didn’t I?” Steve walks into the bar with a broad grin and shakes my hand, a group of people following close behind. “There’s more wizards using Muggle bars than you’d think – more witches too.”

“Who invited Malfoy?” Ron’s eyes widen as Malfoy steps inside and looks around with a disdainful sniff, his snooty expression clearing when Charlie grabs his hand and tugs him onto the dancefloor. “Charlie…fuck, stop that _now_. I’m telling mum! Bloody hell, my eyes…”

Ron disappears to break up some enthusiastic snogging and Hermione comes over to give me an enormous hug. “Oh _Harry_. Do you know there’s a queue outside? Imagine, all this time. I never thought. We should have a parade in the summer. Don’t you think we should? I can make banners.”

“One step at a time, Hermione.” I laugh, and nudge Severus when he mutters something impolite under his breath. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I, Harry.” Hermione’s eyes shine and she hugs me again. “I’d better find Ron. He’s going to throw a fit when he finds out about Charlie and Draco.”

“Too late.” I point to the dance floor, and Hermione dashes off with a groan.

I collapse back onto the seat next to Severus, and smile at him. “You’re looking awfully serious. I think this is going to be a success after all.”

“Indeed.” Severus’ lips tighten into a thin line, and he gives me a dark stare. He smooths my hair from my forehead and rubs his thumb against my cheek, as if memorising the contours of my face. “You’ve seen the article in the _Prophet_?”

“Yeah.” My good mood deflates for a moment, and I recall the scathing editorial about the sanctity of marriage. “They don't like my plans much.”

“No,” Severus agrees. He pauses and watches the unexpected crowds mingle together, moving to the music. “What do you intend to do about it?”

“Fight it. All the way to the Wizengamot if I have to.” Severus tenses next to me. “You don't think I should?”

Severus shakes his head, but it’s not a _no_ , it’s a _typical Gryffindor_ kind of headshake and it makes me smile. “You realise you - yet again - put yourself in significant danger being so vocal about beliefs other people don’t share?”

“I'm always in danger.” I flash Severus a grin. “Have you seen me fly?”

Severus glares at me, with that strange sort of look that catches half-way between cross and something which makes my heart _thud, thud_ and my throat constrict. “I’m not sure it will be at all helpful to ally yourself with one of your former Professors with a history like mine. The press, if they wish, could quickly discredit you as a result of our…acquaintance.”

“I'd like to see them try.” I sit up straighter and clutch onto Severus' hand. “Our _acquaintance_? What the fuck does that mean?”

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m advising you to _think_. You would be far better with Charlie Weasley or even someone with the money and influence of Draco Malfoy. There are better choices of partner to stand by you in this, if it is what you want.” 

I frown, Severus' words making me feel cold. “I don’t care about your past – or mine. What’s the point in fighting for something if I make choices based on what everybody else wants?”

Severus bristles. “I’m simply giving you options.”

I glare at Severus. I make sure I give him the sort of fierce look I’ve been practicing in the mirror to combat his raised eyebrow and frustrated proclamations of _Potter_.

“Your options are rubbish. How can I help anyone else be brave if I'm not prepared to be brave myself?”

“How, indeed?” Severus' voice is low and his eyes flicker strangely as he shifts closer. “All I ask is that you give our situation due consideration.”

“Okay.” I tap my finger to my lip, making a humming, hawing sort of noise and then stand. “I've considered it and I still choose you.” I pause, my breath catching. “If you want to be chosen by me, I mean.”

Severus turns his eyes to the ceiling, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Now _I'm_ the Chosen One.”

“Yeah, you are aren't you?” I laugh and pull Severus to standing, kissing him until I can almost hear the reckless beating of my heart over the music. 

“What do you intend to do now?” Severus breaks the kiss and studies me, seriously.

“Now?” My laugh is breathless, and full of possibility. I kiss Severus as he deserves to be kissed and press close to him until we’re both dizzy. “Now, I’m going to dance.”

The bass _thump-a-thumps_ and the bodies move together on the dance floor. The rainbow flags wave and shimmer in the light. People at the bar shout for a _Moony_ , a _Padfoot_ a _Lily_ and a _Prongs_. Slick bodies slide together and the lights flicker and flirt with the dancers who shimmy under the magical strobes which cast their light over Hector’s Arms.

It’s not the Ministry giving us marriage on a ribbon-bound piece of parchment. It’s not the _Prophet_ saying they’ve made a mistake. It’s not a full dance floor, or a big group of people who want to fight to make a difference. Not yet.

What it is, is brilliant music and Severus kissing me like there’s no tomorrow.

And that’s a bloody good start.

_~Fin~_


End file.
